Sidereal Road
by Whyte Star
Summary: Kirk believes that the members of his crew are dead, but everything is not as it seems.
1. Chapter I

Many things inspired this. It is set in the movie-verse, but will eventually draw on some TOS stuff. It is meant to be fluid and somewhat supernatural. Warnings for language, but especially for the gore . . .

Enjoy!

**SIDEREAL ROAD**

He can taste metal in his mouth, and his nostrils are burning with the acrid stench of something acidic.

The first thing he sees is the roughened surface of the planet, and he can feel it pressing hard against the side of his face.

He is prostrate on the ground, and he cannot remember why.

Jim Kirk struggles to his knees, and the movement sends daggers of pain through his limbs. Every bone in his body feels like it is in a hundred pieces. He groans, falls onto his side, and stares into the distance.

His vision focuses on a large chunk of metal, a scarred piece from some sort of wreckage. The symbol _NCC-1701_ is plainly visible on the surface, even through the dirt and the ashes.

Realization jerks him into action, and he ignores the protests of his body as he staggers to his feet.

He stares, open-mouthed, at the charred and decimated remains of a shuttlecraft no more than a few steps away. One side of the hull is completely missing, and the internal wiring hangs loose like entrails. Debris stretches farther than his eyes can see. The craft is on fire, but the flame is an unusual color, and it belches a thick and oily smoke. Liquids of various colors paint a sickening mosaic on the dirt. He can identify only one, and it is unmistakable: the brilliant red of human blood.

There is a terrifying gap in his memory, and the void makes him feel empty, disoriented. Throbbing pain brings his hand to his hairline, and the feeling of smooth blood against his fingers gives him a explanation for his amnesia.

A heavy sigh rattles from his chest as his eyes scan the remainder of the crash site, and his blood runs cold as he finds something distinctly human-shaped among the metallic debris.

He stutters forward and slips on the liquid discharge from the gutted vessel, landing on his face with a curse. He rises again, spits out the dirt from between his teeth, and crosses the distance between himself and the body with leaping steps.

He discovers that it is a corpse.

Kirk falls to his knees beside the body, his hands hovering with indecision, as if the mere act of touching would make it disappear and swirl away like dust. At last he makes tentative contact, but the body is stiff and cold. He pulls his hand away and finds it slick with blood. It is tepid, thick, and sticky.

" . . . Scotty . . ."

He can barely force himself to speak the name, and it is strained, painful, almost inhuman in pronunciation.

His chief engineer's head is twisted at an obscure angle, and it is obvious that his neck is broken. The right side of his face is unrecognizable. An explosion has melted away most of the skin, leaving behind only blistered remains of connective tissue and an empty eye socket. The destruction has taken most of his right side, and he is missing the fingers on that hand, with only blackened and charred stumps of bone remaining.

The odor surrounding the man is horrifying, the cloying stench of burnt flesh and death.

Kirk tries to say something, but the words freeze in his throat. Without the energy to resist he flings his head sideways and vomits against the dirt. A blinding pressure forms behind his eyes, and his vision fractures as his stomach heaves.

* * *

"Scott to _Enterprise."_

"Uhura here. Go ahead, Mr. Scott."

"Aye. Er . . . I need to talk to the commander. It's important."

Uhura whirls in her seat. "Commander, we finally have contact with Mr. Scott."

Spock inclines his head in affirmation from the captain's chair. Uhura transfers the communication to his station.

"Proceed, Mr. Scott."

There is a moment of silence on the other line, perhaps static, before the engineer's voice breaks through again. "We have a situation here, commander."

"Please clarify that statement."

Scott lowers his voice until it is almost unintelligible. "I cannae find the captain."

The Vulcan makes absolutely no movement, save for his eyebrow.

"Do explain to me how one loses a starship captain, Mr. Scott," he replies.

"I don't know! We encountered some sort of interference upon entering the planet's atmosphere. It made all our sensors go crazy. The control panel exploded, and when all was said and done the captain was gone, sir. Into thin air, not a trace of him left."

"A human does not simply disappear, Mr. Scott."

"That's what I thought too, 'till now, commander."

For a moment, lines of deep thought cross Spock's face.

"What happened after that, Mr. Scott? Why was there such a delay in reporting back to the _Enterprise?"_

"Well, commander, after the control panel exploded, the shuttle lost all power. We must've crashed hard somewhere, because the whole thing is in pieces. I had to jury rig the communication system just to get it working again."

"Do you have a theory as to the identity of this interference?"

"No, sir. Never seen anything like it."

"Is the shuttle salvageable?"

"Only if'n you want the parts. They're scattered halfway across the planet, for all I can tell."

"Clearly an exaggeration, Mr. Scott."

"Not from where I'm standing, sir."

The Vulcan's eyes peruse the bridge, and he takes note of the conspicuous absence of certain personnel.

"Mr. Scott?"

"Aye, sir?"

"Where is the rest of the landing party?"

For a moment there is an intense, heavy silence.

"I don't know, sir. When I came to, I was alone."

* * *

Kirk shoulders his way toward the remains of the shuttle, but the oppressive heat from the fire and the smoke drives him away. He stumbles backward, tripping over a large lump of cloth. It is a tarp, or at least part of it, singed on the edges. It must have come from somewhere inside the shuttle, but he has little other clue as to its origins. He stares at it, as if seeing it in this context is a violation of some law of nature.

He gathers it in one hand, churning up a helix of dirt, and carries it toward the engineer. He glances at the broken visage of his friend, feels the bile rising in his throat again, and tosses the tarp over the body. It settles silently, ethereally, blotting out the horror of death beneath a canvas of muted brown.

"Sorry, Scotty," he mutters, and his words are thick, almost unintelligible to his own ears.

Kirk turns away, his fists balled in frustration, and glares at the horizon. The atmosphere on this planet gives the closest star a reddish hue, and the entire landscape is bathed in the color of blood. He squints his eyes shut, feeling his emotions spiraling out of control, and still the vermilion burns through the darkness and threatens to drive him to insanity.

The wind, hot and sticky, blows against his face, and he can smell sulfur on the air.

He whirls frantically, feeling his bones threatening to jump out of his skin in a visceral reaction to fear of a degree he has never felt before.

A shadow of a figure is standing to his right, where previously there had been nothing but empty space.

"Who are you?" Kirk's instincts take over. He reaches for a phaser that, with a feeling of dread, he discovers is not there.

It is humanoid in structure, but there is something _not right_ about the appearance of this entity, something that Kirk can not place. It is completely androgynous, and possesses the startling quality of being both _there _and _not there_ at the same time. The edges of its form are hazy, indistinct, and melt into the halo of misty light that surrounds it. It is wearing a Starfleet uniform, the color of command, but there is something amiss, something unreal about it. Its eyes are perhaps a shade of blue that is too bright to be natural, its lips are slightly too pink, its skin is too pale, and its expression is completely neutral and immutable. It gives the appearance of a painting come to life, something without a soul made animate.

_Hello, James._

Kirk's entire body shivers. He can _feel_ the words as vibrations in his head.

"The hell?"

_I have been waiting for you._

Kirk heaves a breath. An inexplicable and uneasy feeling is churning in his gut, and his skin crawls. He feels exposed, vulnerable.

". . . What do you want?" The question escapes weakly, childishly, but his tongue seems incapable of formulating anything else.

_I want you to see._

Kirk laughs weakly, but it is more of an unconscious response than from humor. "See what?"

_You must come with me._

"No," Kirk snaps without hesitation. In response to the constant stare he adds: "I won't leave him," gesturing pointedly in the direction of his deceased chief engineer.

_There is no need for that. As you can see, he no longer has the capacity to perceive your presence. It is a wasted effort._

Anger flares in Kirk's chest with explosive force. He rears back his arm, his face twisted in a primeval snarl, and drives his fist toward the unknown figure.

_No, James._

It is as if someone suddenly cuts his brain off from the rest of his body, and the limb falls, heavy and deadened. His eyes snap toward it, wide with amazement. He forces every ounce of his energy into moving it again, to no avail.

_That will accomplish nothing._

"What the hell did you do to me?"

_I have done nothing._

Feeling is returning slowly to the limb, and with it the sensation of a thousand pinpoints of fire crawling under his skin. He tries to move his fingers but can not control them, and he throws his head back with his teeth clenched to keep from screaming. As the agony passes his eyes fall on the entity, and it takes a moment for his vision to focus. It has remained completely still, watching him with those unnerving, immovable eyes.

_You will come with me, James._

Kirk widens his stance and folds his arms across his chest. "Like hell I will."

_You have no reason to stay here._

The image of the burned remains of Scott's face, like a wax mold half-melted, flashes behind Kirk's closed eyes.

"Get out of here," he all but spits the words, each dripping with vile acid. "Whoever you are, just go. Now."

_I cannot do that._

Kirk turns away. "I don't give a damn."

_There are many things you still must see._

Kirk's head snaps sideways and he glares over his shoulder, staring at the entity with an expression that, on a normal, _feeling_ being, would engender a submissive response.

"You're telling me you know where the rest of my crew is?"

_You will see._

"That's not the answer I'm looking for."

_That is the only answer I will give you._

Kirk lets his eyes rest on the silhouette beneath the tarp, and he feels the molten rage swell in his chest again. It is eclipsed as reason reins in his anger, reminding him that there are other members of the landing party thus unaccounted for, and that it is his responsibility to locate them.

His gaze freezes on the entity again. He realizes, with a sinking feeling, that it is not going to give him a choice.

"If you don't take me to them, I'll kill you," he snaps in resignation.

The entity's face remains as impassive and immovable as a stone.

_I can not be killed, James._

Kirk stops short at the words, staring at the entity as it turns and paces away without heed. A sudden force like a chain around his neck abruptly pulls him along behind it before he can protest otherwise.

_To Be Continued._


	2. Chapter II

Beguile is an awesome beta, and a gigantic thank you to everyone for all the favorites and reviews!

**CHAPTER II**

The expression on Leonard McCoy's face as the doors to the bridge slide open to admit him is enough to make certain members of the crew squirm uncomfortably in their seats, but Spock merely regards the doctor's arrival with a smooth shake of his head.

"Let me guess," McCoy barks as he approaches the first officer. "It's Jim."

"That is correct, doctor."

McCoy reflexively pinches the bridge of his nose. "What sort of idiocy has the damn kid gotten himself into this time?"

"According to our only witness, he simply disappeared from the shuttlecraft."

McCoy starts. "Uh . . . excuse me?"

"An unknown form of subspace interference disabled the shuttlecraft during its descent through the planet's atmosphere. The _Enterprise_ lost contact with the craft for approximately four hours immediately after the crash. Mr. Scott was able to reconstruct a primitive communications system and informed us of this situation only a few moments ago."

McCoy pinches with such ferocity that his head jerks away on instinct. "The shuttle . . . crashed?" A mask of horror crosses his face as the dredges of his aviophobia claw at the edges of his consciousness. "Damn," he mutters, in an effort to drive the images away.

"Mr. Scott appears to have been unharmed, but the remainder of the landing party remains unaccounted for."

"Not including Jim?"

"According to Mr. Scott, his disappearance occurred prior to the crash and seems to be a precursor to it."

McCoy shakes his head. "What? You're saying that one thing caused the other?"

"There is not factual evidence to suggest such, but it is not difficult to assume that the same interference that caused the shuttlecraft's failure also contributed to the captain's disappearance."

McCoy sneers despite himself. "Seems a little too neat and tidy for me."

"It is the simplest explanation, doctor."

"I know, Spock. I get it. 'The simplest explanation must be the right one.' It just seems a little too far-fetched for me that some sort of subspace interference is going to make a man simply vanish like that. Something just doesn't smell right."

"Doctor, it is impossible for—"

"It was a _figure of speech,_ Spock."

If Spock is perturbed, he does not show it outright, and neither does the doctor portray any qualms about his forthright manner with a superior officer. The Vulcan learned many months ago that certain aspects of the militaristic nature of Starfleet were inevitably lost on Leonard McCoy.

"Regardless of your instincts, doctor, it is entirely possible for such interference to contribute to the situation. Most likely, it is a result of a spatial disturbance, or a weakening in the stream of space-time, though the fact that such an incidence did not register on our scanners is most unusual."

"Space-time . . . are you saying that Jim was somehow pulled into another friggin' _universe?"_

"That appears to be the general consensus, doctor."

"Dammit, Jim" McCoy mutters mostly to himself, "can't anything ever go _right _with you?"

"You are perturbed, doctor."

"Yeah, Jim has that effect on people," McCoy grumbles. To Spock, he adds: "So, what did you call me up here for? Other than to tell me what I already know?"

"As the chief medical officer of this vessel, your responsibilities—"

"Mr. Spock, I know that already."

McCoy can detect the gentle movement of Spock's eyes as the latter glances around the bridge. The crew members present are proceeding with their tasks almost _too_ diligently, as if making a point to appear busy with work, and obviously the Vulcan is searching for a modicum of privacy.

"Come with me, doctor," and, without turning his head, he adds: "Mr. Chekov, you have the conn."

McCoy follows him into the hall. The Vulcan begins to traverse the hall at a measured pace, his arms behind his back, and motions for McCoy to follow with a gentle motion of his head. The doctor falls into step beside him, his arms crossed and his eyes thoughtful.

"Subterfuge, commander?"

"Negative. I am merely exercising a certain amount of discretion where the other members of the crew are concerned."

"Treating this is a personal matter?"

Spock intentionally lowers his voice as the duo passes a collection of people shuffling with purpose down the hall. "I believe that the captain would deem it necessary, should the event of his incapacitation arise, that I invoke your assistance."

"He's told me the same."

"We can only assume that the captain is dead."

McCoy's face blanches, and he holds up a hand in a defensive gesture, stopping in his tracks. "Spock, don't you think you're being a little too serious?"

The Vulcan continues for several paces before stopping. He turns without breaking his stance. "No, doctor. We must treat the situation as such. I will assume the duties of acting captain." He turns with the intention of returning to the bridge. "I assure you, doctor, that I would prefer not to have to think of the captain in this fashion, but at the moment, our priority is the protection of the _Enterprise_ and her crew. Mr. Scott may be in authentic danger."

"What, and ignore Jim all together?" McCoy assumes an almost protective stance, and there is an accusatory tone to his voice. "Are you out of your Vulcan mind?"

"Unfortunately, doctor, it is necessary to differentiate between the physical and the metaphysical danger. The captain is currently beyond our help. Mr. Scott and the away team are not."

McCoy lets himself slacken. "You want me to prepare a medical team?"

"Indeed. Please remain on standby. I will return to the bridge and make contact with Mr. Scott to ascertain more details on the conditions surrounding the planet. I will inform you when your expertise will be necessary."

The detached tone of the Vulcan's voice makes McCoy's skin crawl in a myriad of emotion: anger, irritation, trepidation. "With all due respect, commander, sometimes I wish you didn't need me."

* * *

It is slightly unnerving how every aspect of the scenery is same monotonous shade of blue. It is not the pristine color of the Terran sky or the crystalline shade of the ocean, but a dead and emotionless hue, a blue closer to black. It is a suffocating color that inexplicably seems to stretch out for eternity simply because there is no feature to break apart the singular plane.

Kirk glances askance at the entity. He is walking abreast of it at a pace more befitting a funeral dirge than a purposeful procession, though it could be that he is lost in the illusion of motionlessness because every single rock is the same exact shape and color as the last one, like a photograph poorly duplicated into the semblance of a landscape.

They are walking along the equivalent of a road, dictated as such simply because the blue may be a fraction of a shade lighter than the rest of the dirt around it.

"Where are you taking me?" Kirk has the sudden urge to swallow his tongue because the question sounds so stupid. Words seem to flow unhindered from his throat in this place, and his head swirls like he is inebriated.

_You are walking the road._

"What road?"

_The road. _

"It has to have a name or something."

_It has existed since before the advent of words or speech. A name is not necessary._

Irritation buds deep in Kirk's chest, and he cannot help but balk at the patronization. "It has to go somewhere."

_It will take us to the place where everything converges._

"Where everything . . . ?" His expression is incredulous. "To the center of the universe?"

_To have a center suggests a corporeal form._

A corporeal form, Kirk repeats in his head. He finds himself looking down at his upturned palms despite himself, verifying that he really does exist in this backwards and illogical dimension.

"Stop being so damn esoteric."

_It is impossible for you to understand. _

"Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence."

_Do not be deterred, James._

"Why?"

_No one understands. _

Kirk shakes his head. "Look . . . uh," he pauses, thinking. "Do you have a name?" When the entity gives no indication of responding he adds: "you knew mine before I even met you, which is slightly creepy, by the way."

_My name is unnecessary, for there is not a person still living that remembers it._

Kirk feels something in his gut curl up and die. It leaves behind a cold, empty feeling.

_But since you insist, I believe, in the words of your people, that my name would be . . . Anathema. _

Kirk cannot explain why the temperature of the air around him suddenly drops several degrees.

"Anathema, eh?" he replies weakly.

_I was not much liked by the people of Terra, James. _

There is a ruffling sound, like dead leaves scattering in the wind, and Kirk realizes it is the sound of his own laughter. "You . . . you've been . . . to Earth?" He blinks, and his eyes feel heavy, leaden. "Wait. How did you know I'm from Earth?"

_I know everything, James. I know everything from your past and your present. It is the blessing and the curse of my existence._

Kirk stops. "Wait just a second, here. I'm not going any farther until you start explaining some things to me."

The tugging of the invisible chain jerks him forward again, and he has to brace his feet to keep from falling. "Dammit, Anathema!"

The entity has remained completely still during the entire outburst; even its arms have not strayed an inch. It continues to stare at Kirk with the azure colored eyes that are just too bright to be real.

_I am not authorized to explain these events to you, James._

Kirk's hands are clutching at his throat, though there is nothing there for him to grasp. "Why the hell not?! Who is, then?"

_You will see everything in time. _

"You've gotta stop dragging me around in circles, here."

Anathema does not turn so much as its body suddenly faces in another direction in a flash of light.

_James._

"Yeah?"

_I am . . . I am truly sorry. _

The stumble in the entity's voice is so unexpected that Kirk finds himself staring.

"Anathema?"

_This will be difficult. _

The entity raises one arm and gestures vaguely into the distance.

Kirk lets his eyes wander in the direction of the outstretched fingers and feels his heart freeze like ice and shatter in pieces around his feet with a physical force that nearly doubles him over in agony.

Footprints are etched in the ground, weaving as if lost. They stop abruptly beneath the collapsed forms of two very familiar figures.

He can discern Chekov and Sulu, their bodies so intertwined that it is difficult to ascertain where one ends and the other begins. They give the impression of a cohesive unit, as if they had supported each other through the last moments of life, and now held one another together through eternity. Poetic, had it not been the lives of two of his closest friends and crew members mercilessly snuffed out.

He can not tell how they died, and that fact is the most disturbing. Life simply stopped in a whirlwind of trauma that left their bodies broken with no visible source.

He blinks away the misty haze. "But they weren't . . ."

Anathema stops him with an upraised hand, and Kirk's throat threatens to close as if under the force of a choking grip. An intense pressure blossoms behind his eyes, and his thoughts flutter out of existence.

"Why is this happening?" His voice is hollow.

The entity is completely still.

_I cannot explain that, James._

Kirk lets his head fall. "Of course you can't, dammit." He glares at the corpses for a heartbeat, tracing the outlines of the bodies with his eyes. His body suddenly explodes with movement, and he drives his fist toward Anathema and is able to make a connection somewhere in the vicinity of the entity's face and . . .

He finds himself prostrate on the obscure, flat ground, with his arm thrust dumbly in front of him, fist still balled in rage. Anathema glances down at him, completely expressionless.

_You know that such an action is useless._

Kirk rolls onto his back, breathless, and glares up at the entity with a disapproving glare in his eyes. "How the hell did you do that?"

_Get up, James._

Kirk snaps a curse as he struggles to his knees. Every motion he takes seems to require a tremendous amount of energy, like trying to walk through deep water. There is an emptiness hanging in his chest he feels he will never be able to satiate. "This. . . this can't be real," he speaks, somewhere between a whisper and a moan.

_I can assure you that these deaths are as real to the people that experienced them as yours will be. They are dead, gone from this plane, and that will never change._

Kirk sees red for only a moment, until reason settles his thoughts. "This plane?" He shakes his head as if to dislodge harrowing thoughts. "I have a feeling I'm not in the universe that I'm supposed to be in, am I?"

_There is a theory that the people of Terra postulated many years ago, that there exists a universe for every single possibility. You are at the crux of such a universe. What you see is real, what you experience is real, but it is not the universe that you existed in hours before._

"You brought me here."

_Yes._

"Why?"

_Because there is something at the end of this road. _

"Something?"

_Something you must see._

"The rest of my dead crew, is that it?" He whirls to gesture at Chekov and Sulu, and emits an audible cry of disdain or surprise or pain. "What . . . where the hell did they go!?"

Where there previously had been an intertwined helix of broken bodies is now a chasm of empty space. The cobalt-colored dirt is undisturbed, as if they never existed.

"Anathema!" Kirk whirls, eyes ablaze. "Since I can't kick your ass, you are going to have to start explaining things to me." He lowers his head and glares at the entity. "No more games."

_This is not a game, James._

_To be continued._


	3. Chapter III

**CHAPTER III**

_Captain's log: Commander Spock in temporary command. Approximately ten Earth hours ago, the _Enterprise _encountered a small, Class M planet currently unrecorded in the Starfleet database. Significant magnetic interference in the atmosphere of the planet prohibited transporter abilities. An away team of Captain Kirk, Chief Engineer Scott, Lieutenant Leslie, and a security team of Lieutenant Bellamy and Ensign Abel was assembled to investigate the planet by way of shuttlecraft. _

_Approximately twenty Earth minutes into descent an unknown interference disrupted the function of the shuttlecraft and contact with the vessel was lost for approximately four Earth hours. Chief Engineer Scott reestablished contact with the _Enterprise_ at that time, confirming that the shuttlecraft had lost all power due to the atmospheric interference and had crashed onto the planet. The engineer himself seems unharmed. The remainder of the landing party is thus far unaccounted for. _

_We are attempting to discern the nature of the interference in order to facilitate the departure of a second away team, this one to serve as a search and rescue party. _

_The captain, according to Scott, disappeared from the shuttlecraft shortly after the initial encounter with the anomaly. There was no obvious cause. We have no knowledge of his whereabouts, and I am forced to consider him missing in action._

* * *

An unusual thought crosses Lieutenant Leslie's mind as consciousness returns to him, slowly and unwillingly: the ground is much softer than usual, and much warmer.

And it is _breathing._

His body snaps to attention and he scrambles to something resembling a kneel, but the instant he places pressure on his right arm, all thought flees from his brain with a flash of light, and he doubles over again in agony. Something beneath him moans in response, and he soon discovers himself staring at the battered and bleeding form of Lieutenant Bellamy.

"Leslie," the latter attempts to speak, but there is a bloody gap where two of his teeth have gone missing, and the name falters beneath a gurgle. The young man sluggishly clutches at his mouth, and pulls the hand back to reveal the offending fluid. "Damn," he mutters in the same wavering voice. There is a wound at his hairline, deep and menacing, and blood is running into his eyes.

Leslie discovers that their bodies are tangled, the result of two forms thrown haphazardly across a great distance. Gingerly, with his injured arm curled tightly against his chest, he crawls away from Bellamy's supine form and plants himself, legs akimbo, on the ground. The world takes on a sickening, liquid-like quality, and he holds his breath with his eyes squeezed shut until it subsides. The harrowing pain in his arm threatens to send the contents of his stomach on an unfortunate upward journey. It is a bad break; he can feel the bone hanging loose, and the limb feels hot and swollen to the touch.

Bellamy pushes himself up onto on elbow, turns his head, and spits a bloody mess onto the dirt beside him.

"Did we really survive a shuttle crash?" he offers in a blathering resemblance of English.

Both lieutenants examine the twisted mess of what was once the back end of the shuttlecraft, blackened and almost unrecognizable some distance away from them. Detritus of the crash is scattered around them, and a trail of debris carries into the distance, where thick smoke rises dark and thick against the sky. There is a deep gash in the earth from the impact.

"Evidently we did," Leslie offers flatly, "but what about the rest of the away team?"

Bellamy's face twists in a painful expression. "Abel was standing next to the control console when it exploded. I don't think he made it through that. But the captain . . . and Chief Engineer Scott? I have no idea. But I don't like it."

Leslie tries to recall the incident, but there is a terrifying gap in his memory. There is such a brilliant pounding in his head that he is finding it difficult to see straight.

"My head is killin' me," Bellamy offers toward him.

"Something doesn't feel right here, Bellamy."

"Yeah?"

Leslie rolls the shoulder of his good arm. There is a kink in his neck. "What did you see?"

"Lots of sparks flying. The captain was yelling." He swallows hard and makes a disgusted face before turning his head to spit a large quantity of blood again. "It gets a little fuzzy after that. Why? Did you see something I didn't?"

In truth, the last clear recollection in Leslie's mind is stepping into the shuttle while it was still on the _Enterprise._ His memory from that point forward tapers off into a hazy and incoherent mess, until it drops into blackness altogether.

"No," he mutters to Bellamy, distracted. "Look, do you think you can walk? We need to look for the others." His eyes trace the ominous wreckage and the featureless landscape painted in a disconcerting shade of blue. "I don't much care for this place."

Bellamy rolls over, pushes himself to his knees, and expels a variety of curses and guttural sounds as his body adjusts to the change in altitude.

"Ay, Leslie?"

"Yes?"

"You sure my head is still all there?"

Leslie closes his eyes as a wave of dizzying nausea pulls at his stomach. "You'll make it."

"And we really survived a shuttle crash?"

"Are you going to get up and walk or _not,_ Bellamy?"

"I don't believe it," Bellamy stammers. He braces himself with both hands and manages to force himself to one knee before his legs give out beneath him, and he collapses to the ground with a groan of painful surprise. "You know, Les," he offers, his voice wavering drunkenly, "I don't think my body is gonna listen to my head."

* * *

After several months on the _Enterprise _and several years in the presence of one Jim Kirk, there are not many events that can surprise Leonard McCoy.

When the doors to medical bay slide open to reveal several of his orderlies fighting to restrain a violently flailing crew member amid a circle of chaos on the floor, he takes a step back in a moment of consternation.

The young man thrashing beneath the hold of the three orderlies is young and dark-haired, with eyes of the same hue, currently wild with unnatural rage. His skin is pale and bright with perspiration and his hair is matted to his forehead. He is baring his teeth, spitting sounds that only vaguely resemble words, and his strength is wild, unrestrained. Even with the entire body weight of three orderlies he is threatening to break free from their control.

"Excuse me, sir," he hears Christine Chapel say, placidly, as she breezes past him, a hypospray in her hand.

Chapel continues undaunted, kneels beside the man, and delivers the hypospray through his clothing with perhaps a fraction more force than is necessary. He arches away from the impact as if physically harmed, dragging one of the orderlies across the floor with him, and is about to throw the other two away and scramble to his feet when the sedative knocks his legs out from underneath him, and he falls like a stone.

The orderlies release him with a collective sigh, and step away to collect themselves. All three look exhausted. There is an air not of fear but rather of apprehension that hangs heavy between them.

Chapel is getting to her feet when she senses McCoy's looming presence at her back.

"Nurse Chapel?"

"Yes, sir?"

McCoy considers searching for something more eloquent to say, but resigns to waving a hand in the air, gesturing at the chaos: "What is going on here?"

"He came in complaining of loss of vision and an extreme headache, sir. As I was in the middle of treating him he became suddenly confrontational. As you can see," she adds, not bothering to motion to the young man splayed on the floor, "I was forced to sedate him just as you arrived, doctor."

"And who is he?" McCoy motions to the orderlies, and at his orders they gather the collapsed crewman and carry him to a biobed.

"Ensign Jacob Abel, sir."

McCoy walks with her to the side of the biobed. His eyes are fixated on the ensign. Even in drugged unconsciousness, there is a hollow quality to his face, an expression of immutable fear forever frozen on the young features.

"Chapel, get me some samples for diagnostics," McCoy speaks across the bed to her. "I want to run some tests on this kid. Put him in restraints, too. I don't want a repeat of what just happened here."

"Yes, sir."

He continues to examine his patient as Chapel goes about her work with silent efficiency, and remarks to himself, sardonically, that when something happens to her captain, the _Enterprise_ is always quick to follow him into the chaos.

Something in his gut tells him that, this time, it is not coincidence.

* * *

Kirk is watching Anathema's feet as the entity walks. It was initially as a means to deter himself from staring at the suffocating blue landscape, but at the moment his attention is utterly focused on the disturbing lack of footprints that his companion leaves behind.

He whirls his head to look over his shoulder. There is only one set of footprints in the blue dirt.

His eyes return to Anathema, and he resumes his stare, trying to decipher with his eyes what his brain refuses to believe. He can not call it _floating,_ but the entity's feet seem to fall a fraction of an inch above the ground with every step. It moves seamlessly, soundlessly, and leaves no trace of its presence behind. Its boots, Starfleet regulation, remain as black and pristine as if they were newly issued.

Kirk looks down at his own boots to find himself covered nearly to the knee with blue dirt.

Irony wraps its fingers around his consciousness, and he barks a round of laughter.

Anathema stops mid-stride and whirls to face him in an eerily instantaneous fashion, moving like a ghost, defying every law of physics.

_You are amused, James?_

As Anathema watches him unnervingly, Kirk takes a moment to examine the entity. The uniform is familiar to him, being nearly a duplicate of his own, but there is a quality about it, an imperfection he can not locate, that gives the entity an almost menacing appearance. He can not put his disquiet to words, save to say that watching the entity gives the appearance of staring into a mirror where the reflection is a truncation of reality.

It could be that the shirt is a darker color more toward brown than gold. In comparison to the muted background, the delta shield shines as if made from iridescent metal. There is no insignia present on the inside. It is instead a solid mass, slightly larger than normal, and its edges are sharper, more pronounced. It looks closer to a weapon than a means of identification.

"Anathema?"

_Yes, James?_

"Why are you dressed in a . . . Starfleet uniform?"

_I adopted a guise that I felt would be appropriate to earn your trust._

The vivid blue eyes watch him, seeming to glow in the semi-darkness.

Save for the fact that Anathema is completely androgynous, Jim Kirk could swear that he was looking at himself.

He tears his eyes away, staring into the distance over the entity's shoulder.

"It's going to take more than a uniform to get me to trust you," he adds, breathlessly.

_I could attempt. . ._

Before Anathema finishes speaking its form suddenly becomes a silver mass of something somewhere between a liquid and a solid, bright and iridescent. Kirk finds himself holding his breath as the entity twists and constricts. As its form coalesces into something sentient again it is no longer an androgynous being in a Starfleet uniform, but rather a diminutive woman with curled blonde hair and round, brown eyes. She reaches a hand, a smile on her face that would be pleasant on a living human being, but one that manages be hollow and cold in Anathema's slightly imperfect reproduction.

Kirk makes a strangled sound as he realizes he is staring at the image of his mother. He body threatens to convulse, and he turns his head away. "Stop it, Anathema!"

_I must apologize. Perhaps I could . . ._

Hearing the vibrations of a discordant sound, not really a voice, issuing from a copy of his mother's throat makes every nerve in Kirk's body seethe in a guttural response. He shakes his arms out with a warning growl, for it is the only thing he can think to do save the use of physical force.

There is a sound like the gradual intake of air as Anathema dislodges the guise and emerges as the familiar yet featureless entity. Anathema backs away from the noise, watching Kirk's wild gesticulations with something akin to shame written across its face.

_I am sorry, James. That was unkind and foolish of me. I will not attempt such a transformation again. _

"No, no. How did you know she--" Kirk stops himself, shaking the thoughts of his mother from his head. "Don't answer that. The Starfleet uniform is fine." Kirk continues, but his delivery is weak: "I still don't trust you."

_It is not necessary for me to have your trust, James. I need only your cooperation. _

The discordant tone of the entity's voice makes the statement of fact into a cold and menacing taunt.

Kirk folds his arms. "You're about to have neither."

He regrets the statement almost instantaneously, as the invisible force that Anathema commands with no outward movement grabs him around his neck and throws him forward. He flings out his arms out to keep from falling.

"Except for that," he snaps.

_James._

The entity is looking back at him through the corners of its eerie blue eyes, and the expression causes the protest in Kirk's throat to falter away into a weak retort.

"I really wish you would stop that."

_Are you ready?_

Kirk stares for a beat and laughs, bitterly. "Now's a hell of a time to ask me."

Anathema continues to glare, unblinking, and Kirk has a distinct feeling that the entity's head is turned sideways a few inches farther than what is normal.

"I don't have a choice, anyway."

_That is correct._

Kirk steps around Anathema's outstretched arm. "Show me, Anathema."

The entity lowers its outstretched arm and raises the other to point vaguely into the distance. As if on command, a blurred and indistinct form appears several steps from them, veiled as if through a fog.

Kirk recognizes the form instantly, and something catches in his throat. He hesitates for a moment, testing the strength of Anathema's invisible hold. Convinced that his neck he free of the imaginary chain he turns his back on the entity and runs toward the figure, his feet pounding with audible echoes against the hard blue earth. Something stops him when is barely three strides away, and he doubles over with a cough, grabbing at the invisible interference.

The thought does not cross his mind to turn and glare at Anathema, for every iota of his consciousness is focused on a different point. When the stars fade from his vision, he snaps his eyes back to the previous object of his attention.

"Uhura?"

The lieutenant is standing with her arms curled against herself, appearing minute against the prodigious backdrop of endless blue earth. She is utterly pale and still, and looks uncharacteristically fragile in both stance and expression. She is staring at him, but her eyes have no pupil, or perhaps he can not discern them in the half-darkness.

"Uhura?" He reaches out his arms toward her, but something freezes them midway with a force he is afraid will break his very bones.

_No, James._

He can vaguely detect her lips moving, and she pitches forward unexpectedly. She collides against his outstretched arms, feeling almost weightless, and in a horrific instant her entire body turns to dust. It is a complete transformation without sound, and what was once a solid form begins to run through his fingers like water. A wind he can not feel rushes past, scattering the minute particles in a helix through the air as he stares, open-mouthed and wide eyed, as a scream freezes in his throat.

"It's not real," he mutters to himself. "Dammit, this isn't real."

_But everything here is real, James._

His head snaps upward, and he flinches out of reflex to find the entity standing very close to him. How it crossed the distance between them so quickly and so silently will always remain a mystery to him.

Kirk straightens and watches as the last fragments of his former communications officer swirl away in the cobalt distance. He balls his fists, feeling the debris of her existence that are like grains of sand between his fingertips.

"Anathema?"

_Yes?_

"Shut up."

_To be continued._


End file.
